


my love is not an illusion

by AsunaChinaDoll



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clingy Peter Parker, Domestic Fluff, Fever, Fever Dreams, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hallucinations, Late Night Conversations, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Mid-Credits Scene Compliant, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles, Suicidal Thoughts, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Whump, it's not that bad, kind of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-18 06:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21690181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsunaChinaDoll/pseuds/AsunaChinaDoll
Summary: "'ony?" Peter slaps a hand over his pale lips."I gotcha bud," Tony says as he scrambles off the couch and grabs the nearest trash can, thrusting it between Peter's trembling knees.Instead, Peter throws up on Pepper's Persian rug.---A couple weeks after returning from his Europe excursion, Peter gets hit with a bad case of the flu. At least he has Tony to take care of him.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 37
Kudos: 512





	my love is not an illusion

**Author's Note:**

> I love sickfics and have been dying to write my own. I've been working on this baby for months. I hope you enjoy! :D

Peter hated wearing his glasses.

They were like coke bottles taking up half of his face, the black frames just as thick, and could probably kill a man. Contacts were a big no-no, because Peter _refused_ to touch his eyeballs. So, the glasses had to remain, much to six-year-old Peter’s chagrin. Sure, he could see, but it shouldn't have been at his expense. The teasing, although juvenile, was relentless, carrying on for the majority of his school career. The braces in his mouth could at least be hidden, but the glasses were a loud statement he would have rathered not be spoken. 

They were the first thing to go after the Bite. Shoved in a box at the very, _very_ back of his closet, along with his inhaler, epi-pen and any other evidence of his pre-Bite weaknesses, never to see the light of day again. 

He liked to think he kicked “getting sick” to the curb too.

But as he lay on his bed in that weird haze of feeling like absolute garbage, he realized he was so utterly and sadly wrong.

Peter didn’t know what aroused him from his slumber, but he felt disappointed when his eyes opened of their own volition. Sleep was a ghost he had been chasing ever since he returned from London, only to catch up just enough to find there was nothing there in the first place. Sometimes, as the white noise of nighttime New York bled through his apartment window, he would blink, count his glow-in-the-dark stars pasted on the popcorn ceiling, recite the numbers of pi, and hours passed in which he had gotten no rest, no matter how much his body yearned for the pull of sleep.

Most of the time, when he couldn't stop himself from falling asleep, all he could see was the swirling storm of his fears and painful regrets and the other building blocks of his nightmares. Beck’s towering illusions ( _they feel so real_ ) would come back full force just like the unforgiving train digging into his spine; his family dying a hair's breadth away from his grasping fingers ( _no no no not again_ ); Uncle Ben’s suitcase and the first suit Tony ever made him being whisked away in a fiery whirl of earth ( _I'm_ _so sorry_ ); ash, sweat, blood, grime underneath his fingernails, down his throat, as chaos spills like ink all around him ( _"_ _We won, Mister Stark. We won, you did it, sir, you did it"_ ). 

Peter blows a breath out of puffed cheeks, dragging his arm up to rest on his forehead. He blinks awake blearily, trying to take in his surroundings. He couldn’t remember where he was, which was probably a bad thing, but judging by his surprisingly silent spidey-sense (he refuses to call it his Peter Tingle™), he knew he was somewhere safe. His brain felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and as he tries to recall what he did the day before, it was like the memories passed through his fingers like fog.

As his hands absentmindedly trace circles into his bed sheets, it suddenly occurs to him that they feel too soft and silky to be his cotton sheets spread over his twin mattress at the apartment. With that realization, it slowly comes to him that he’s staying with Tony at the cabin while May is out of town. He had arrived two days ago and he’s never felt so tired in his life.

A chill crawls up his spine, and his skin becomes rough with goosebumps as he shivers uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. _Did Tony crank up the AC?_

He attempts to curl into himself to try and salvage the little warmth he has, but his limbs ache in a way that feels like he just took a beating. He groans, half-annoyed and half-pained, unable to move. But as the cold continues to grate against his skin, he reaches his limit. 

It feels like it takes forever, his movements slow from exhaustion and the bone-deep aches throughout his body, but he manages to dress himself. By the time he gets back in his bed, he has Tony's MIT hoodie pulled over two sweaters, sweatpants, two pairs of socks on and a scarf for good measure. He grabs a fleece blanket from the top of his closet before crawling back underneath the sheets, curling back up into a ball on his side. That's when he gets an idea that he embarrassingly should have thought of sooner. 

"Hey, FRIDAY?" Peter whispers hesitantly into the air. He's taken aback by how hoarse he sounds but he doesn't dwell on it any further.

**"Yes, Peter?"** She whispers back.

"Could you turn on the heat? Please?"

**"It is currently a comfortable 70° Fahrenheit."**

That didn't seem right. Something was wrong with this scenario but frankly, Peter was too tired to think. 

"I feel r-really cold," Peter stammers as another shiver spreads over his body. "Just turn up the heat in here, FRI. Thanks."

He pulled the blankets up over his head, managing to tuck the sides against him before settling, chills still running rampant up his spine. 

Time is weird in this state, speeding and dragging simultaneously. As much as Peter wants to sleep, even if he could, he's still much too cold to slip into unconsciousness. He manages to focus his hearing and listens to the heat blowing in his room, the birds chirping outside, Tony's rhythmic heartbeat that Peter is so familiar with... 

Peter feels a hand running through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. He sighs contentedly, leaning into the comforting touch. 

"Hey kiddo. I need you to wake up. Can you open your eyes for me?" Peter recognizes the voice but it takes him a second to realize who it belongs to, as well as the hand buried in his curls. 

"Mis’er S'ark?" He mumbles, his throat sore and his mouth feeling simultaneously dry and thick with saliva.

"Bingo. _You_ , on the other hand, don't look too hot. I need you to get up so that I can get a good look at ya. It'll only be for a few minutes and then you can go back to sleep. Deal?" 

It doesn't seem unreasonable and Peter does want to rest so he complies. His eyes flutter open, the corners of them feeling stiff with grit. He rubs at his eyes with fisted hands, trying to adjust to the cracks of sunlight pouring into the room through the blinds, illuminating floating dust particles. When he looks up, his vision focuses like a camera lens on Tony sitting on the edge of his bed, a look of concern etched on his face. The glint of Tony's prosthetic arm caught Peter's attention momentarily, a reminder of how close he was to losing someone else he cares about. Tony smiles at him gently. 

"Atta boy," Tony commends with a pat on the shoulder. "Think you can escape your blanket burrito and sit up?" 

Peter nods and with a little guidance, he gets untangled from his nest and sits against the headboard next to his mentor. 

"What time is it?" Peter mumbles, resting his head back against the headboard. Tony frowns at how gravelly his voice is, reaching behind him and grabbing a half-empty water bottle. He unscrews the cap before handing it to Peter, which he takes gratefully and starts sipping at the room temperature water. It's not as refreshing as Peter wished it would be.

"It's almost noon," Tony answers. "I was letting you sleep in, like the heathen you are, and then I walked by your room and _felt the heat through the door._ It's like a freaking sauna in here." As if to push the idea further, Tony hooks a finger around his collar and tugs. 

"... oh," Peter replies dumbly.

He gives the water bottle back to Tony, shutting his sore eyes and letting his head drop onto Tony's shoulder. Tony puts the water bottle back on Peter's nightstand and presses the back of his flesh hand against Peter's forehead. Peter is surprised by how cool it feels, leaning into the touch greedily. 

"You're really burnin' up," Tony mutters. Peter just nods along, not catching the worry in Tony's voice. 

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" Tony asks, dropping his hand. 

"Well... I'm cold, my everything hurts, throat's kinda scratchy… ’m really tired..." 

"You can sleep in a little bit, I promise," Tony assures, moving a stray hair off of Peter's sweaty forehead. "FRIDAY, diagnosis?" 

**"After a full body scan and considering Peter's symptoms, he seems to have contracted the flu, specifically strain B. Doctors advise to treat the fever and make sure the patient has plenty of bed rest and fluids until the flu passes."**

"Yay," Peter deadpans. 

"Figures." Tony clicks his tongue, patting Peter's knee. "So much for the father-son fishing trip I planned," he says with a small shake of his head. Peter frowns. 

"We were gonna go fishing?" Just thinking about the smell of fish makes Peter nauseous. 

"Yeah, but a movie marathon seems more your speed right now." Tony smiles playfully, gently nudging Peter's cheek with a knuckle. 

Peter thinks there’s a joke he could make hidden somewhere but it’s too much effort to think so he smiles a little instead, replying, "Yeah, that sounds good."

Tony hums in thought for a moment, observing Peter with dark eyes. "Do you think you might get sensory overload?"

Peter shrugs a shoulder. "Meh. Honestly, everything feels kinda dull. Like, instead of it normally being dialed at eleven, it's dialed at a five. Maybe six."

"Well, you'll let me know if anything changes. Alrighty," Tony claps, switching gears, "first order of business is getting you out of all those clothes." Tony eyes Peter's outfit with a funny look before turning towards the ceiling. 

"FRIDAY, turn off the heat, run AC on low." At hearing this, Peter makes a sound of disapproval. 

"Nooo, 'm cold," Peter whines. As if on cue, he shivers, crossing his arms over his chest. Tony sighs. 

"You only feel cold, bud. But you're actually roasting from the inside out like a potato, so we gotta get those clothes off." 

"Good thing I identify as a potato." Peter giggles at his own joke and is met with Tony's unamused expression. 

"Pete, you gotta work with me here. You look like crap." 

"I feel like crap." 

"Well okay then, listen to me and you'll start feeling better in no time. We have to kick your healing factor into gear." 

"Okay," Peter agrees defeatedly. 

After watching Peter struggle to remove his extra layers for a few minutes (Tony trying not to laugh at how adorably frustrated Peter got trying to take off his hoodie), Tony mercifully steps in and helps the poor boy. 

("Wow, you wore socks to bed? In the middle of July? You're definitely sick."

"It's not my fault the fever is making me freeze to death.")

After Peter settles into sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, the pair slowly make their way into the living room. Like an oasis in a desert, Peter felt like crying at seeing the couch, collapsing onto it gratefully. His pants for air are shallow and quick, the small trek taking up a lot of his already low energy. He groans inwardly at the wake the flu has left him in. _I'm Spider-Man for crying out loud!_

"I hate this," Peter declares vehemently as Tony tosses a blanket over Peter's figure. Peter snuggles grumpily onto his side, watching Tony above him rearrange pillows with a little pout. "The flu is my arch enemy."

"I thought your arch enemies were pigeons," Tony replies, standing to full height while his lips hint at an amused smirk. 

"... Okay, well," Peter huffs before crossing his arms dramatically. "They're pretty much tied for first place, although the flu is winning by a smidge right now." 

Tony chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Whatever you say, Pete." Then, Tony juts his chin out towards him, asking, "How's your stomach feeling?"

Peter gives a noncommittal shrug. 

"Think you can keep some soup down?" 

"Maybe. I don't feel really nauseous or anything. Just crappy." 

"I can work with that," Tony nods to himself. He gives Peter a soft, sympathetic smile and a pat on the shoulder before moving to the kitchen to prepare the food. "You're in for a real treat, Parker, I hope you know that. I'm making you your nonna's finest soup for the illest of Spider-Babies." 

"Joy," Peter deadpans before requesting FRIDAY to play The Empire Strikes Back.

* * *

They're in the middle of The Force Awakens several hours later when Tony looks down at Peter in his lap and declares, "I know you're not sleeping, bud."

The boy in question has his fever-flushed face pressed into Tony's torso. He's laying stomach-down across the length of the couch, his body twisted just enough so that his arms are securely wrapped around Tony's waist, keeping him firmly wedged into the corner of the couch. Tony had no other choice but to be resigned to this position for the foreseeable future, glad he at least had his phone to play around on. 

At hearing Tony's words, Peter stills. "Can you not hear me snoring?" He asks, his voice muffled against Tony's shirt. Tony huffs a laugh. 

"So you finally admit you snore?" 

"I definitely do _not_ snore," Peter whines, turning his head to reveal a bloodshot eye, giving Tony a half-hearted glare. Tony simply raises an eyebrow. 

"You are aware that I have audio and visual proof saved in the Spider-Baby folder, right? I can have FRIDAY pull it up--" 

"One, I'm pretty sure it's illegal to keep recordings of minors and use them as blackmail and two, don't be mean to me. I'm the sick one here." Peter pouts as Tony laughs. Tony holds up a hand in surrender.

"Fine, fine," Tony relents. Then, he smirks. "But if your scary girlfriend somehow obtains said folder, don't come cryin' to me."

Tony is incredibly amused at Peter's wide-eyed expression, his face stretched with mirth. 

"Please don't, Tony. I beg you." Peter clutches at Tony's shirt pleadingly. Tony just shrugs.

"No promises, Underoos." Tony chuckles at his teenager's long-suffering groan. 

Peter turns back against Tony's stomach, pressing his face into the soft space and tightening his hold ever so slightly around Tony's waist. Tony just sighs and drapes his prosthetic arm across the small of Peter's back, placing his other hand on Peter's head. He gently cards his fingers through Peter's sweaty curls and Peter immediately melts at the action. He hums contentedly as Tony works through the small knots his fingers catch on, massaging the hairs at the base of Peter's neck. Tony can't help the fond smile that curves his lips but it quickly turns into a frown at the heat still emanating off the kid in waves. He really hopes the enhanced ibuprofen will kick in soon.

"You know," Tony starts gently, "snoring isn't that bad. I snore. Morgan says I sound like a grizzly bear. But, snoring means that you're sleeping, which automatically makes it a good thing in your case."

Peter rolls his dry lips between his teeth, keeping his face hidden as Tony tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. There's a pause, where all Peter can hear are the sounds of their chests expanding with each breath and Tony's steady heartbeat like a lullaby. There are the low sounds of laser guns and clashing lightsabers coming from the TV, the washing machine spinning down the hallway. Tony's silent question of concern doesn't go unheard either.

Peter thinks about Before and how Tony would've reacted then versus now. It's almost nauseating to think it was over five years ago, and he always has to catch himself when he's not on the right track of time. He imagines Tony five years younger, expressing his concerns in pure Tony fashion-- bluntly and with a firmness that wasn't always harsh but left no room for argument. It wouldn't have been long before Peter cracked under the pressure (not that Peter could ever keep anything from Tony). 

Now, Tony is gentler. Calmer, not resorting to anger as quick as he used to. Peter isn't opposed to the change but it's still quite jarring to see how much had changed while he was ~~dead~~ gone. How Tony changed, and how Morgan was able to change him in a way he wasn't able to. ( _Maybe I could've with time_ , he tells himself.)

Peter refocuses and sighs heavily, knowing he can't avoid the conversation any longer. He lifts himself into a sitting position. Tony brings his prosthetic arm around Peter's shoulders as the kid curls into his side. He rests his head against Tony's collarbone, closing his eyes quickly as the move in position causes the room to dip and spin. Tony shifts so that Peter fits closer against his ribs, pressing his nose into Peter's hair. Once the dizzy spell passes, Peter manages to bring his eyes open to half-mast, despite his eyelids feeling weighed down by bricks.

"Buddy… I want to help you but I can't if I don't know what's wrong." Then, with a softness that Peter's still getting used to, Tony murmurs into his curls, "Please, bambino." 

Tony is pleading and Peter's stomach roils with guilt at having brought Tony to this point. He shouldn't have to deal with this.

And so, Peter braces himself against the storm.

It swirls violently, images of the worn leather initials _BFP,_ the smell of copper and dust and dirt and not being good enough, not being fast enough as Tony, May, MJ, Ned, everyone slips past his fingertips.

But Peter feels Tony's arm around his shoulders, the solid, warm presence beside him grounding. The absolute epitome of safe and sound. He opens his mouth.

"I can't ride the subway anymore." 

It's not what Tony's expecting, and it shows in the way the lines of his face crease. Peter discovers a loose string and begins picking at it. 

"I know, it's kinda pathetic." Peter laughs humorlessly, a bitter smile gracing his features.

"Pete…" Tony breaths, a disapproving lilt to his voice. Peter presses his lips together thinly. 

"When I found out who Mysterio really was… who Beck was… I went to Mister Fury to try to fix things. We ended up walking into a trap. He…" Peter bites his lip, his hands shaking, and he clenches them into fists. As his nails dig crescents into his palms, Tony gently places his own hands over Peter's closed ones. Grounding. _I'm here._ Peter relaxes, taking a breath against the sudden quell of nausea.

"I sensed him, but it was too late." ( _Good for nothing, never enough.)_ "I tried to fight him, but… he made me see things," Peter whispers.

"What kinds of things?" Tony questions gently, a sense of fear and protectiveness washing over him. Peter looks up at him, his brown eyes wide and a little frightened.

"Bad things."

Suddenly, Peter pales considerably, his whole face contorting in pain, hands gripping his stomach. Tony straightens immediately, his hands hovering over Peter's form.

"'ony?" Peter slaps a hand over his pale lips.

"I gotcha bud," Tony says as he scrambles off the couch and grabs the nearest trash can, thrusting it between Peter's trembling knees.

Instead, Peter throws up on Pepper's Persian rug. 

* * *

"So," Tony drawls, collapsing back into his recliner with the phone pressed against his ear. "How're my best girls doing? Enjoying your mother-daughter trip, I hope. Spending all my money, I know." 

Pepper chuckles on the line. "Like we'll ever run out. And yes, we're having a wonderful time, although I'm sure just about anything is a vacation compared to what you and Peter are going through."

"May told you?" Tony asks, despite knowing the answer.

"Word travels fast around these parts. How's he doing?" 

Tony sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "He's as okay as anyone with the flu. His fever keeps spiking randomly. He emptied his stomach about five times over. By the way, prepare for lots of apologizing when you get back. And a new rug in the living room."

Pepper makes a noise of sympathy. "Poor thing."

"Uh, why aren't you calling _me_ a poor thing?" Tony says with partially faux indignation. "I had to clean up after him. Got down on my hands and knees--"

"Uh huh."

"--Sometimes I was afraid I'd never stand up again. Fun fact: I saw Mom's soup several times today in several different states. It wasn't pretty."

Tony could feel Pepper's eye roll through the phone. "Don't even pretend that you don't like taking care of him."

Tony scratches at his scruffy beard, contemplating for a moment. "Okay, fine, sue me. But it's been rough, and I need your sympathy. I thrive off it."

Pepper laughs, "I love it when you get a taste of your own medicine."

"Feeling the love, babe," he pouts, because he's fifty-three going on five.

"Is he sleeping?"

"Yeah. Took a while though, as well as a little help from the Spider-Baby whisperer, i.e. me, and a good ol' shot of NyQuil doesn't hurt." Tony pauses, thinking about their unfinished conversation from earlier that day. The almost haunted look in Peter's eyes. He recognizes that look well from seeing them in his own eyes, a reflection of his demons rummaging around in his head, though they've never been as quiet as they are now.

Shortly after Peter returned home from London, it didn't take a genius to see how on edge Peter became. He's always been anxious and fidgety, constantly moving or tapping, and that was only amplified after he returned. Depending on the day, the smallest things seem to make Peter flinch, or get a glazed look in his eyes and retreat back into himself.

Tony had called and texted Peter as often as he could but Peter didn't answer back as quickly as he used to, or at all. Tony figured Peter may have just needed some time to process what happened, or he was making goo-goo eyes at his new girlfriend. Needless to say, when May had asked him to take Peter for a week while she attended a work conference, he didn't hesitate to jump on the opportunity. And he missed Peter. So, a win-win situation.

"The kid's been havin' a really tough time," Tony says softly, his heart aching at the need to keep Peter safe, to make sure he's happy. "Who knows what that dick put in his head."

"I know you worry about him, honey," Pepper affirms. "We all do. But you'll figure it out."

"Soon, I hope. Anyway, sorry to cut this short my love, but I should probably check on him. See if he needs his pillows fluffed or something." Tony stands and stretches his stiff limbs, hearing all his bones pop and feeling his age.

"Of course, hon. Tell Peter we say hi when he's coherent." 

"Will do. Tell thine alpha female I love her. Maybe I'll call back in a few to talk to the little Miss properly."

"Sure. We'll catch up more later. Love you, babe."

"Love you too, sweet cheeks." Tony smiles triumphantly at Pepper's breath of laughter.

"Good night Tony." 

The phone clicks.

Tony slips his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and pads over to the kitchen, grabbing Peter a bottle of Gatorade and a cup of raspberry jello. He walks around the kitchen island and heads back upstairs to Peter's bedroom, already accepting the fact that while Peter snoozes, he won't be. Reaching the door, Tony gently raps once on the wood before entering. 

The first thing he notices when he walks passed the threshold are all the sheets spilled onto the ground. Tony furrows his brows in confusion, stepping over them to the nightstand. He sets down the items in his hands before turning the bedside lamp on. The yellow light illuminates what Tony had assumed: an empty bed. Tony's gaze sweeps the room and he cranes his neck, looking into every crevice for his patient. He ignores the other part of him that's full-on panicking. 

"Pete?" He calls tentatively.

Tony suddenly hears the toilet flush and ragged breathing coming from Peter's bathroom. He notices the door ajar a couple inches and walks around the bed towards it. Tony steels himself before pressing the door open.

“Peter? Is everything alright in here?” Tony asks softly into the air. When he pokes his head inside the bathroom, Peter shoots up from his slumped over position against the toilet. His brown eyes are wide, like he got caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar, and are clouded over with a fever-induced haze. 

“Are you okay, bud? Still feeling a little puke-y?” Tony places a pink slipper onto the bathroom tile when the look on Peter’s face morphs into one of pure terror. 

“D-don’t!” Peter yells, scurrying away on his hands and feet until his back hits the bathtub. Peter's whole frame shakes and he grips the edge of the tub, his knuckles bleached white from the force. Looking nothing short of a frightened animal backed into a corner, Peter shouts, “D-don’t come any closer!”

Tony’s stomach drops straight through the floor and his blood freezes in his veins as his vision tunnels onto his petrified kid, trembling on the bathroom floor. Peter's face is as white as a sheet, not just from being ill, and the dark, gaunt bags under his sunken eyes like bruises starkly contrasts with his complexion. Sweat beads line Peter’s brow, shimmering in the dim yellow light, his brown curls unruly and wild.

Tony holds up his hands placatingly, trying not to let the own shakiness in his limbs show as a horrible coil of unease grips him.

“FRIDAY, what’s going on?” Tony asks as he takes in Peter’s frazzled appearance. 

**“Peter’s temperature has elevated to 102.9 degrees Fahrenheit. He appears to be experiencing a fever-induced hallucination,”** FRIDAY informs him. 

Peter never turns his gaze away from Tony, watching his every move with fearful eyes. He didn’t seem to even notice FRIDAY speaking. Tony swallows dryly as it dawns on him what he has to do. 

“FRI," he murmurs, "keep updating me on his temp, lemme know if it gets too high.”

**“Got it, Boss.”**

“Kid,” Tony speaks up, trying to keep his voice even and calm. “Peter, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s Tony.”

“You’re lying!” Spittle flies from Peter's mouth. Tony tries not to flinch at the sudden outburst and his eyes dart down to Peter's death-like grip on the tub's edge, thin cracks running along the once pristine porcelain. Peter shifts, lifting his chin higher with a daring look in his eye despite shaking like a leaf. Like he’s trying to be brave.

“I know it’s you Beck! You-you can't trick me!”

Tony grits his teeth, the name igniting flames beneath his skin. _When this is over_ , Tony thinks to himself, _I’m going to fly to that maximum security prison Beck is being held in and blast a hole through his stupid face._ He takes a breath to quell the hot anger rising up inside him. 

“Peter, listen to me. Beck is gone. He can’t hurt you anymore. You stopped him, remember?” Tony raises his eyebrows, hoping to jog Peter’s memory. Something like recognition flashes across Peter’s face. He loosens his grip a fraction, looking at Tony through slitted eyes. A little of the tension bleeds from both of their shoulders. 

“Tony?” Peter questions, his voice small. “Is-is that really you?”

Tony smiles, hoping it doesn't look strained. He reassures, “It’s me, Pete, I promise. Have I ever lied to you?”

As if worried about ruining the moment, FRIDAY says quietly, **“Temperature has risen to 103.1 degrees.”**

Tony’s heart pounds faster.

Peter seems to wrack his brain for a moment. “N-no…” 

“That’s right,” Tony nods encouragingly. “Peter, you’re sick. You have the flu and your fever is really high right now. Please, let me help you.” Tony takes a step forward, keeping his eyes trained on the boy in front of him. Peter twitches sharply, his stance still holding apprehension. Tony stops.

"T-tell me something only you would know," Peter rasps, a mixture of a plea and a command. Tony's mind scrambles for a memory and he latches onto one.

"A couple months after the Vulture fiasco," Tony starts calmly, "you were spending the weekend with me at the Compound. You asked me about that white and gold grand piano in the living room. I told you it belonged to my mom, and how she taught me to play."

Tony wets his lips, watching as Peter relaxes slightly. He continues, "You begged me to play you something. Well, more like held me at gunpoint, but same difference. So, I went up to the piano and I played the first thing that came to mind. And when the song was over, you had actual tears in your eyes, and I made some joke about my performance, but you just looked at me."

He ducks his head to make sure he had Peter's attention. "You told me that your mom used to hum that same song to get you to sleep," Tony says, his voice holding nothing but reverence. His smile feels less forced now, gentle like the air they breathed in that spaced.

"And I told you my mom used to do the same thing for me," Tony finishes.

It doesn't take long before Peter nods, allowing Tony to move forward across the tile.

**“Temperature has risen to 103.2 degrees.”**

Tony shuffles a little bit quicker, ignoring the rushing of blood in his ears.

Tony is within arms reach when Peter’s eyes widen like saucers and he straightens so fast, Tony’s afraid he has whiplash. Tony pauses, furrowing his brows together as he takes in Peter’s stance. 

“Kid?”

Peter’s eyes make their way up to meet Tony’s. He bites his lip and shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” Tears begin to pool in Peter’s eyes, his face seeming to crumble with it. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, as if he’s making himself as small as possible. 

Tony’s heart aches and Peter looks so young and the fierce swirl of protectiveness in his gut tells him to _fix it fix it this isn't right fix it._ He just wishes he could spring forward, grab his boy and never let go. Tony inhales before gently lowering himself to the ground; screw his creaking knees. 

“What're you sorry for, bud?” Tony asks so softly it’s almost a whisper. Peter’s face scrunches up a little but his eyes don’t quite reach Tony’s, looking somewhere passed the man’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeats and _God why does he sound so broken_? “It’s all my fault. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’msorryI’msorryI’msor-”

“Peter, what is your fault?” Tony interrupts Peter’s mantra harsher than he meant, seeing the way the boy flinched, but the repetition was like a hammer against his chest, cracking his sternum and threatening to puncture his already fragile heart. Tony closes his eyes and inhales shakily, reeling himself back. He tries to be gentle when he says, “Jesus, I'm sorry Peter, I shouldn't have done that. Just-- please tell me what's wrong so that I can help you.”

Peter gulps and looks down, his teeth worrying at his chapped bottom lip. He is silent for a moment before he looks back up to meet Tony’s gaze. Something like trust and love and guilt swirl in his almost comically wide eyes. Tony gets a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Peter opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

“You shouldn't have brought me back.” 

It's almost inaudible, Peter had breathed the words so quietly, but for Tony he might as well have been holding a microphone. 

It’s like Tony glitches out of reality, everything in him stuttering. The words settle heavily in the room like a thick dust, coating his throat and robbing Tony of the ability to breathe. A horrible feedback loop of the moment repeats over and over in Tony’s head and the words sink deep underneath his skin, turning into vines, snaking around Tony’s heart and it doesn’t take much for it shatter. He has to force himself not to scream. 

“I-I don't deserve-” Peter's voice cracks. The tears that had been threatening to fall begin to spill over his cheeks. Tony wants to wipe them away but stupidly he remains stock still, the static humming in his brain stifling. All he knows is that this is wrong, everything about this is _wrong._

“It’s my fault. So it's-it's okay, if you don't want me around anymore.” Peter gives a weak, watery smile but it disappears quickly as a whimper escapes his lips. “I’m just-- I'm sorry, Tony, I’m so so _so sorry_.”

Peter’s full-on sobbing now, his chest spasming with hiccups as hot tears continue to flow down his face. Finally, Tony gains control of his limbs and he jumps into action, closing the distance between them and wrapping his arms around the teenager. Tony almost pulls away from the sheer heat radiating off of Peter’s skin but then he realizes that this is _Peter_ and even if his skin was made of fire, Tony wouldn't mind getting burned. 

He cups the back of Peter's head and firmly presses the kid's forehead down against the crook of his neck, drawing him closer. It almost seemed like Peter was going to pull away but he quickly changes his mind. He lets out another sob as he leans rapaciously against Tony, fisting the man’s shirt in his hands, and Tony doesn't dare mention the sound of ripping fabric. He tries his best to soothe Peter, rubbing circles into his back and muttering reassurances into his ear. Comfort didn't use to come easily but now it's second nature and Tony silently thanks Morgan for his years of having to kiss her boo-boos. 

**“Temperature has risen to 103.3 degrees.”**

Tony clenches his jaw. 

After a moment, Tony pulled back enough to look at Peter. He runs a calloused hand through Peter’s hair, dislodging the sweat-soaked curls from his forehead. He cups Peter’s cheeks in his hands, thumbing away the tears that streak his face. Peter looks at him pitifully through half-lidded, swollen eyes.

“Peter, baby,” Tony starts firmly, “you have _nothing_ to apologize for and whatever it is, it’s not your fault. You're crazy if you think I would ever let you outta my sight.”

Peter sniffles as he searches Tony’s face. 

Then, almost like a challenge, he states, “I gave away EDITH.”

The crease between Tony’s brows deepens at the confession.

“One of the only things you gifted me and I j-just handed it over to Beck. It was s-so stupid, I’m so stupid for trusting him. My friends and thousands of people almost died because of me.” 

"But they didn't," Tony is quick to counter, hoping to break Peter out of his spiral. "They're alive because of you. And Beck tricked you. He tricked everyone. He manipulated you into giving him EDITH, because he’s a twisted psycho not worth another second of brain power. It’s not your fault because you didn’t know."

“I’m sorry that I’m not who you thought I was."

Tony blinks, the lines of his face deepening with pain and he feels impossibly sad for his kid. 

“Oh Pete…”

**“Temperature has risen to 103.4 degrees.”**

Another sob tumbles out of Peter’s mouth and he screws his eyes shut, squeezing out more tears. Tony tries to ignore the way his own eyes burn. 

“I know you want me to be better but…” Peter trails off, shaking his head fervently between Tony’s hands. “I can’t ever be better than Iron Man.”

Tony blinks, utter shock causing his mouth to hang open. Is this why Peter's not been himself?

Because if there is anything that Tony has no doubt about, it’s that Peter is the definition of _good_. This sweet, kind, self-less kid that can keep up with him in the lab because he’s so brilliant. This kid that has only one goal whenever he comes to visit: make Morgan laugh. This kid that helps old ladies carry their groceries and little boys with their tree-stranded cats. This kid that is made from literal beams of sunlight, plucked from the sky, and his eyes made up of stars and a smile that can break down any walls. This kid that the world doesn't deserve but he deserves it and more.

**“Temperature has risen to 103.5 degrees.”**

Tony inhales sharply, conjuring up what to say in order to calm Peter down and make sure that he believes him. And he is not afraid to drill it into his kid’s thick skull until he believes it too. Tony is the king of self-deprecating and he will not let some angsty teen with a major guilt complex take away his crown. 

“Peter, you listen to me and you listen close.” Tony’s voice is solid, the grip on Peter’s face grounding. He waits until Peter’s eyes meet his, noting his bleary stare through glistening lashes.

“It. Is. Not. Your. Fault. Okay?"

Peter starts to shake his head but Tony stops him, quick to nip it in the bud. 

"No, Peter. It’s _not_ your fault.” Tony scans Peter’s face earnestly as he runs a hand through Peter’s damp locks. "In fact, ya know what? I was _so_ proud of you when I saw what happened. Well, a little mad at first, but I was mostly, ridiculously proud. I'm still am. You hearin' this, Underoos?" 

Peter nods weakly, looking dazed. 

"Good, and you're going to get so tired of me saying that." Tony bows his head, taking a deep breath. He looks back up to Peter, caressing Peter's cheekbone with his thumb.

“I can list on one hand the happiest moments of my life, and seeing you alive, with my own eyes, on that battlefield… definitely in my top three." Tony smiles genuinely, crooked and sweet. 

"Because _you came back_.” His voice wavers, the words heavy and euphoric on his tongue, and Tony gently jostles Peter’s head in his hands for emphasis. "I'd lose all of my limbs a thousand times over if it meant that you were safe and happy and making mistakes and saving lives." 

(Because at least that meant Peter was breathing and his too-big heart was pumping, and it seemed so trivial long ago but Tony had learned to never take the trivial for granted.)

"And no, you’re not who I thought you were. You’re so much _better_ , and you’re only sixteen, kiddo. You’re gonna be the best of all of us.”

Tony smiles a little wider, hoping Peter can sense the sheer, unadulterated pride he has for him because _that’s his kid_ and he has the privilege to be able to shout that from the tops of mountains, to the oceans, to the entire universe. He whispers it instead to the person who deserves hearing it most. 

“You already are.”

Peter blinks deeply, once, twice, as he processes Tony’s words. The clouded look in Peter’s eyes seem to fade as Peter comes to.

“... Is this real?” Peter whispers, his voice hopeful but not yet devoid of skepticism.

Tony nods, giving the back of Peter’s neck a light squeeze. “Yeah, Petey-pie. This is real.”

“Dad?”

Tony swears his heartbeat spiked, the title like music to his ears and his smile never fades. 

“It’s me, Pete.”

“Dad…” Peter’s lip quivers as another tear leaks out but Tony is quick to wipe it away with the pad of his finger. Peter grips Tony’s shirt like a lifeline and without a second thought, Tony pulls the kid back into his arms and into his lap, shielding him from the world as he weeps.

“Shh shhh, it’s okay, kiddo. I've got you. I got you.” Tony gently rocks them back and forth as tears slide down Tony’s neck, collecting in the dip of his collarbone.

“ _Dad_ ," he sobs. "I’m sor-”

“No, no more apologizing. I forbid it.” Tony shuts his eyes, burying his nose in Peter’s hair and squeezing him tighter, like he’ll disappear into ash any second. (And he had, right in the spot where he was supposed to be the safest, but Tony made sure he never would again.)

Without hesitation, Tony presses a kiss onto Peter’s temple and murmurs, “I love you, Pete. I love you so much.”

Peter’s eyes flutter shut at the affection and the bloom of warmth in his chest. Without hesitation, Peter murmurs back, “I love you too.”

**“Temperature has risen to 103.6 degrees.”**

Tony’s heart flies into his throat. 

“FRIDAY, lights at twenty percent,” Tony orders, immediately shifting gears. The room brightens enough for Tony to get his bearings, casting hazy, gray shadows across the walls. He tries to stand but Peter holds on tighter. 

“Kiddo, I gotta draw you a bath. You’re way too hot for my liking,” Tony reasons, patting Peter's forehead for emphasis. But he should’ve known that trying to reason with an ill, clingy child trying to come back from a mental breakdown is pointless. 

“All you need is a pencil and paper, you don’t have to leave,” Peter mumbles into Tony’s chest. Tony snorts unceremoniously, a loud, ugly sound that seems to diminish the leftover tension in the room. Tony can’t help but think that delirious Peter is pretty cute (minus the last several minutes, that he could live without).

“And I thought I was the dad here. Now c’mon, let me up. I’m not leaving.”

Peter begrudgingly releases his clammy hold on Tony’s t-shirt. He rises from his position on the floor, gritting his teeth as his knees protest, and reaches for the bathtub faucet. He fumbles with the knob until it gushes lukewarm water, droplets splashing up against the tub.

“Tony?” Peter croaks. 

“Yeah bud?”

“I feel like really gross, hot garbage.”

Tony chuckles almost hysterically. “I bet you do. I’m gonna help you though. It's gonna be okay.”

Tony will make sure of that.

* * *

Peter snuggles against Tony's chest, his head tucked perfectly beneath the man's chin. Tony rolls his eyes good-naturedly, patting Peter's back.

"You comfy now?"

"Mhm," Peter hums happily.

It took a while for Peter's temperature to decrease to a level tolerable for Tony, but it eventually did after some time. They both changed into fresh clothes and Tony gave Peter another round of cool water and medicine. Then, without any words exchanged, they both crawled into Peter's bed. 

It doesn't take long for the two exhausted beings to settle in each other's circle of warmth beneath the comforter. Peter's messy mop of curls tickle at Tony's nose, but he could care less as he continues to breathe in his kid's watermelon shampoo, at ease with the weight in his arms. He draws lazy swirls between Peter's shoulder blades, smirking as the kid sighs and relaxes further into his hold, snuggling impossibly closer.

Just as he's at the precipice of unconsciousness, he hears Peter mumble something.

"Hm?" He prompts.

"I said…" Peter trails off with a sigh. Tony snakes a hand into the curls at the back of Peter's head, squeezing gently. 

"Take your time, bud. Got nowhere to be." 

"I… I'm scared," Peter breathes. A silent moment passes between them. 

"What're you scared of?"

"A lot of things recently. Stupid stuff."

Tony clicks his tongue. "It's not stupid, kid. Not when it involves you."

"I dunno…" Peter sighs again. "My anxiety shoots through the roof around trains now, so that's a thing." 

"And why's that? You didn't get to finish your thought earlier since you puked your guts out."

"Beck tried to kill me by moving me in front of a speeding train."

Peter had said it so matter-of-fact that it took Tony's brain a second longer to process his words.

"What!?" Tony exclaims, pulling away just enough to look down at the silhouette of Peter's sweet, beautiful face and wonder how anyone could actively try to murder a child, _his_ child. He swears under his breath.

"I swear to God, when I get my hands on that piece of--" 

"Tony, it's fine." 

"It is very much _not_ fine--" 

"Well he didn't succeed did he? I'm right here," Peter states, pressing his palm over Tony's old arc reactor scar.

"But still-- _Christ_ I can't believe I almost lost you again and didn't even know it." Tony closes his eyes and inhales shakily, pressing his forehead against Peter's in an attempt to calm his racing heart. "You never cease in giving me heart attacks and gray hairs, kiddo."

"Psh, you were getting those anyway, considering they're normal for people your age," Peter smirks.

"Ah, you're feeling much better if you're whipping out your sass."

Peter laughs lightly. His fingers play with the fabric of Tony's shirt as another moment passes.

"What else is there?" Tony asks.

Peter grimaces. "Does there always have to be something else?" 

"With you? And in our line of work? Well, yours. Absolutely. So spill." 

Peter wets his lips. "Well, Beck had that super realistic projection tech, right?" 

"Yeah, and he made you see… things." 

"His illusions… they felt _so_ real. And I kinda maybe stopped sleeping, cause they came back in my nightmares. And I lost track of eating, and helping May in anyway I can at the shelter, and Spider-Manning, and… yeah."

Tony sighs, his metal fingers cool against the back of Peter's neck. "Well, that explains why you're sick. You've gotta take better care of yourself, Underoos." 

"Says you."

"Hey, I'm not that bad. Anymore. And besides, it's really your fault for choosing _me_ , of all people, as your role model."

"I make a lot of stupid decisions, but choosing you was one of the least dumb," Peter replies, to which Tony snorts.

"Wow. I'm touched. Have you been looking up bad poke-y-man pick up lines?"

"Ohmygod," Peter groans at Tony's old-manness. "First of all, it's Pokémon, not _poke-y-man_ ," he laughs.

Peter shifts a little, continuing softly, "And, it's true. That's why I couldn't sleep anymore."

Tony smiles smugly, responding, "Because I'm _such_ a good mentor?"

Peter doesn't reply, and there's a shift in the air, all humor disappearing, and Tony's suddenly on edge. Peter trails a finger along the shoulder hem of Tony's shirt, his lips pressed together thinly, when something wet slips over his cheek. Peter's chest feels strangely hollow, like everything holding him together has been stretched too thin, and he feels nothing and everything at once. He reasons with himself that it's the fever making him more emotional than normal as another tear falls across the bridge of his nose. He goes to wipe it off, hoping that the darkness of the room is hiding his tears, but somehow Tony knows anyway and beats him to it. A calloused hand cups his cheek and wipes ever so gently underneath his eyes.

"I-I know it's not true… but Beck had said something… about not being good enough. And of anything, _that_ is what's stuck with me. Because…" Peter trails off, sniffling once. "I don't know. I'm just rambling." 

Tony rubs comforting circles into Peter's back. "It's alright," he murmurs.

"Whenever I close my eyes," Peter continues quietly, clenching Tony's shirt in his hands, "I see my mistakes. I-I lose you. I lose all of you. And I can't handle that."

Peter's voice cracks, and he's so tired, but Tony catches every tear. Peter takes a deep, shaky breath, composing himself as much as he can.

"So, yeah. Beck illusions two-point-oh aren't any more fun than the first time," Peter finishes lamely, swiping at his nose.

"I'm sorry, kiddo," Tony replies, sounding sad and heart broken. "Maybe if I hadn't fired him--" 

"No, Tony," Peter quickly shuts that down, lifting his gaze towards Tony's face. "You did the right thing. If it's not my fault, then it isn't yours either."

Tony is powerless against Peter when he's set in his convictions and he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"I hope you know that it's very hard to take you seriously with your prepubescent voice, but fine. Consider it dropped," he relents. 

Peter smiles genuinely, the apple of his cheek pressing up against Tony's palm. And just because he felt like it, Tony presses a kiss against the crown of Peter's head, causing Peter to squeak and close his eyes at the sign of affection. When Tony pulls away, the smile Peter wears is as though he was presented a bushel of stars. He leans forward and rests his forehead on Tony's sternum.

"Alright, I think that's enough mushy stuff for one night. You need to get some rest, Spider-Baby. Still gotta recover."

"Mhm," Peter agrees tiredly, his eyes shutting of their own accord, though he doesn't mind this time.

"If you throw up on me, I'll never forgive you."

Peter breathes a laugh. "Uh huh." 

"I mean it, kid."

"Good night, Tony."

"Good night, Pete."

Peter snuggles a little closer into Tony's chest, his body feeling impossibly heavy, sighing with contentment.

Before falling over the edge into a much-needed sleep, he mumbles, "Love you, Dad."

Tony's chest explodes with warmth and he feels as though he might burst. His lips twitch upwards and he relaxes further into the mattress. He waits until Peter's breaths are deep and even with sleep, his parted lips causing a little whistling sound, and Tony smiles again. 

"Love you too, bambino."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!!
> 
> Comments and kudos are so much appreciated :))))


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